


A Wolf in Sheeps' Clothing

by sp00ns



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Eventual Smut, M/M, its a wip, violence in general in similar fashion to the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5589748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp00ns/pseuds/sp00ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is a hitman with a problem. His next hit becomes too interesting to detach himself from and finish the job. Will this be Hannibal's final hit or could this be more than meets the eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf in Sheeps' Clothing

Hannibal was, in fact, just the best there was. Speaking in terms of methodical hit-men, he was quick and clean and a perfectionist. Three very valuable characteristics that determined whether or not one got any job offers. Hannibal took a breath and held it, hands coming to a complete halt with a finger hovering just over the trigger of his beloved weapon, the first weapon he had ever successfully completed a kill with. He exhaled as his fingers squeezed over the trigger and there was a light pop noise due to the silencer, a necessary evil. He had trailed his victim for three days before he had been able to complete the job. Well, it wasn’t done yet. Hannibal still needed to dispose of the body and weapon. He had contacts that could clean up the body and as for the weapon, let’s just say, it would be lying in disassembled pieces up and down the interstate as he rode back home to Virginia.

He returned to his hotel room not only to pick up whatever he may have used or touched but to also wipe it down. Hannibal sighed, “How tiresome…” He was a stickler for details; everything must be perfectly in order. Or else. There was no room for mistakes in his line of work because mistakes could get you killed. He turned to the mirror located by the door before he left. Hannibal looked haggard. He doesn’t get sleep when he’s on a job, he has no time. His mind must be carefully disciplined and that seemed to be best done by tedious run-through of plans in his mind palace. He had to go through every possible outcome, every single one. Nothing could go wrong. He ran a hand over his face, as if he were trying to bring some sort of life back to it. But as his hand slipped away, he saw his bloodshot eyes and gave up what little hope he had of even remotely looking presentable. Straightening his tie, and putting on his best mask of charm, he ventured out onto the cold pavement.

Heels cracking against the solid ground in an almost soothing tempo. 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, rinse, repeat. Hannibal pulled his jacket tight to his lengthy frame, almost like he was trying to hold back what dark secrets lie within in him. He pulled the shitty rental car door out, wincing as the awful creaking ran its icy hands down his ears and sent unpleasant shivers down his spine. He just needed to get home, to get to routine, at least for a while. The entire eight hours it took for him to get from his current location to his destination was spent in silent deliberation as he reviewed his latest case. A spineless, frail man who as it would seem had pissed off the wrong people.

Indeed, in his line of work, he took any case he could get without hesitation or questions. The entire order of things hung on a careful balance of animosity and that's what Hannibal liked. Of course, he didn't get involved any more than needed. Usually, anyways. If one of his clients piqued his interests in a certain way, than he would not think twice about playing a few cat and mouse games or experimenting with the clients psyche to see how they would react. He was a man of science, in theory. He needed to have a very strong mental shield and a dark sense of humor to not go completely insane. Hannibal sighed in relief as his house appeared in sight. He wasn't home very often, for safety reasons. Quiet would be incredibly nice at a time like now, but he had to begin preparing for his cover job. He was a psychiatrist, an incredibly renowned one at that. One might think that drawing in too much attention would have an adverse effect. In regards to his lifestyle, no one questioned when he took long and frequent 'vacations'.

That was the point; no one questioned.

He had a niche in the FBI department that allowed him to keep tabs on certain cases and it didn't hurt to keep up with the locations of the latest on the wanted list. As for everyone else, he had a pristine filling cabinet in his mind palace with files on who he should keep an eye on and who was harmless.

Hannibal never had problems distinguishing between the sheep being battered around in life and the wolves, much like him, seamlessly blending in until the last moment, relishing each and every moment of suffering; leaving no evidence that anything had ever occurred in the first place.

Well, almost never.

Will was the exception, blurring those lines that separated the sheep from the wolves.

He made the lines weave together like a glass of red wine cascading over a white couch. Staining everything in it's path a deep red. And that's what Hannibal noticed about him. The deep red in his mind, waiting on the very edge. Asking to be tipped over that precarious void.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've posted in a VERY long time and I suppose this is me trying to get the ball rolling again. It would be much appreciated for any sort of comment, whether that be advice or critique or anything of a similar fashion. Thank you so much!!!


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